


And Ever Onward

by wheredwellthe_brave_atheart



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU for Season Seven, Angst as these two haven’t learned to communicate yet, Cousin Incest, F/M, Season Six Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2018-12-02 19:08:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11515602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheredwellthe_brave_atheart/pseuds/wheredwellthe_brave_atheart
Summary: "For so long she had been alone, surrounded by false friends and true enemies - with Jon by her side she felt a rightness settle in her bones. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”What I hope could be true for Jon and Sansa.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> I'm very aware this ain't gonna be what's gonna be, but can't a girl get a little wish fulfillment around here?
> 
> Listen I love Jon/Sansa and here's how I think it should go:

Many weeks after little Lady Mormont had crowned Jon _King in the North!_ , Sansa sat in Winterfell's great hall. The feast was raucous, the men shouting in good cheer and toasting each other with tankards of good Northern ale.

Sansa sat by Jon's side at the head table, sensing a headache beginning to pound at her temples. She ached all over with exhaustion, feeling drained and irritable. Though she was proud as she looked over the life thriving at her home, under her guidance, she longed for her bed with heavy furs and a roaring fire as she sipped her wine in her seat beside Jon.

He ate steadily and laughed with the men and women around them, but Sansa could tell, as she glanced at his profile from the corner of her eye, that Jon, too, was weary, from the way his eyes would close for a moment too long when he thought no one could see.

He truly looked the part - King in the North, with the Stark looks and his great furs around him. He fitted far better than she did, here, surely. Since their bloody victory and triumphant return home, Sansa had felt an imposter, a southron lady in Wolf's clothing. After all, she had lied, had changed her skin so often in her past, who's to say she hadn't forgotten her Stark blood?

One of the Manderley sons stood suddenly and offered a toast with his tankard to "the Starks in Winterfell!", voice roaring over the crowd, cheeks pink with cheer. Jon nodded and toasted his cup back.

For an instant, in the glow of the torchlight, the shadows cast on Jon's face reminded Sansa of how he had looked in battle - smeared with men's blood, dirt, and grime, eyes wide and chest heaving. A wild thing, a warrior of a man. A stranger.

She tore her gaze away from his face, vision suddenly blurring, her lungs tight.

_Oh, enough, you silly girl_ , she berated herself, attempting to master her breath. _He's still Jon, he's here in front of you, you know him._

There had been a raven that morning, a battered northern raven with a stranger's writing and no signature which held a secret that had turned her world on its axis.

Sansa was not willing to have Winterfell invaded by dragons. She could not decide if the news was true, but she was unwilling to picture any banners but those with a direwolf hanging in Winterfell's halls.

The noise of the feast around her faded as she thought of the Bolton's flayed man crumpling under their attack. _Oh, Ramsay is dead, he is gone!,_ she thought, but that was no good, for her thoughts had turned to her tormentors' screams as his hounds tore his flesh from his bones, and the sound of Jon's fists cracking Ramsay's skull against Winterfell's pavestones-

The bloody images roiling in her mind were interrupted by the gentle touch of a hand at her elbow. She wrenched her gaze up from the table, into Jon's searching eyes.

"Sansa," he rumbled, brow furrowing with concern, mouth pulled in a customary frown. Even the rough, low timbre of his voice was Northern. He sounded just like her uncles, like her father. Like Robb would have, if he had lived even a few moons more.

"I'm fine, Jon," she snapped, jerking her arm away.

The newly-crowned King in the North didn't look convinced. He grunted slightly in disbelief - such a Northern noise, those low rumbles of assent or disapproval. She believed he could hold entire conversations by mumbling, if she would allow it. _How could I ever have doubted that he belonged here?_ she thought, and Jon continued to gaze at her from the corner of his eye as she lifted her goblet with a steady hand, gulping the wine with perhaps a bit too much vigor. _And if that raven is true, they will try to take him away, now when I can't bear to lose him._

As she set down her goblet she could feel Littlefinger's eyes on her even from across the hall, that piercing gaze assessing her, constantly, picking out weaknesses and cataloging strengths, and now Jon's eyes, too, were squinting with worry, and she was seated next to the King at the high table, so of course the Northmen's eyes would drift to her seat every so often, and she was tired, tired of feeling men's eyes latch on her body, burrowing under her skin-

Sansa stood abruptly, scraping her chair against the flagstones. Her head was pounding, now, as she tried to cover her hasty movements with a gentle smile for the crowd. "Thank-you, Brienne," she said, noting the speed with which her sworn protector came to her side. "I am tired, Jon - Your Grace," she murmured to her brother, gathering her skirts. "I will retire for the evening."

He stood and nodded hesitantly. "If you wish, Sansa-" he said, and before he could finish she maneuvered past his seat and out through the antechamber door beside the head table, Brienne following in her wake. She did not spare Petyr a glance, though the former Master of Coin shifted in his seat as she passed him.

Her thoughts swirled around in her aching head as she dismissed her guard and entered the peaceful solitude of her chamber. As she readied herself for bed, she desperately tried to find answers for the questions which haunted her. Where was Bran, separated from poor, poor Rickon? Could Arya still be alive somewhere, after all this time? What would Petyr do to claim the life he craved? How could she and Jon survive the oncoming fight?

As she ran a brush through her long hair, her hand shook slightly when she pictured the battles soon to come. The White Walkers were coming, Jon was certain of it. If the Wall and Winterfell should fall-

_When a Stark rides South, they die._

A knock on her chamber door startled her out of her deliberations. The swirl of her thoughts dissipated into irritation at whoever was outside the door, be it servant or messenger or perhaps even Petyr. Praying to the old gods and the new for patience she could feel wearing thin, Sansa stalked to the door, feeling like an impetuous child.

"Brienne," she pleaded, frustration leaking into her voice. "I do not wish to be disturbed-" She pulled the door back and was startled to see Jon.

He made another Northern noise at the sight of her in her shift, eyes darting quickly downward to the floor. “You’re still awake, then," he rumbled. His breath smelled of ale, and apples, even though in this Winter there wasn't much fresh fruit to be found.

She recovered enough to pull her robe tighter around her, fighting off the chilly air from the hall. "Clearly," she replied, shifting her bare feet. "What is it, Jon?" she asked.

He frowned again and cast his gaze about, before clearing his throat. "I...wanted to make sure you were alright. You seemed shaken, at the feast."

She felt an angry flush creep up her face. There were more important things to be worrying about than her obviously-upset state of mind, never mind that she had tried to hide her discomforts during the feast. "Truly," she said, obstinately, "it's nothing I can't handle alone."

His face crumpled, a little, and he rubbed at the back of his neck. "What I mean is- You needn't be alone, if you don't wish to be," he offered gently, and Sansa felt something warm curl in her stomach.

"Oh," she said softly, understanding flooding her senses.

Jon nodded, eyes darting up to meet hers.

Sansa huffed impatiently, toes freezing on the cold stone. "Well, alright, then," she said, beckoning him in.

Jon had frequently visited her chambers at the Wall, and in their camp, as they both were loathe to be parted after so many years separated from any family. She had felt, from the moment she spotted him in the snow at the Wall, an unbearable pull towards him, an ache to be beside him, to hear his voice, to see his somber face break into a rare smile.

She loved to sit with him by a fire, while she sewed, or read, or merely talked with him - something she certainly never did in their years of childhood together. His constancy was so reassuring at a time when her mind and body screamed distrust at her stupid heart.

For so long she had been alone, surrounded by false friends and true enemies - with Jon by her side she felt a rightness settle in her bones. _The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. A wolf pack, and no dragon horde, surely._

Jon closed the door behind him and hovered near the entrance, as Sansa made for a chair by the fire. As she sat, irritability flared in her chest as she noticed Jon's worried face.

"You can sit, you know, you needn't hover like a nervous Septa," she snapped, without really knowing why.

He scowled then, lines slashing across his brow. "I only wanted to help, Sansa. But if I'm not needed-" he turned and made for her door again, the firelight casting his furs into shadow.

How had he provoked her so, merely by entering her room?

"I do need you!" she confessed hastily, to stop his hand as he reached for the doorknob. "Jon, I... I don't want to need you, or anyone- but I can't..." she trailed off as he halted, waiting. She stood, and drew a breath to steady her explanation. "For so very long, I've needed someone else's protection to survive, and I wish I didn't, Jon, I wish I didn't need to rely on someone else so much. I wish,"she bit her tongue as he turned back to face her, his eyes flickering with firelight, "the sight of you walking away didn't hurt so much, but it does, it does."

He took a step towards her, and she turned her face away, anxious to hide the tears springing unbidden to her eyes.

"If you leave-"

“I’ll always protect you," Jon insisted, suddenly animated, striding forward to stand near her in the warmth of the fire. "For as long as you want me to. I swear by the old gods, Sansa."

Overcome by her weariness and his words of devotion, she embraced him swiftly, throwing her arms up around his neck as she had at Castle Black. She sighed shakily, shoulders hitching as his hands spread across her back.

 “Has this all really happened?” Sansa asked him, face nestled in the crook of his shoulder. "Sometimes I feel like I've been dreaming for a very long time," she whispered.

Jon sighed then, his chest rumbling beneath hers. "I woke from the dead," he murmured, pulling back to look her in the eye. "Trust me - I know how it feels to be caught in a dream."

Slowly, Jon took her face in one of his large hands, thumb brushing her cheekbone. The delicacy of his touch was at odds with his calloused fingers and rough palm. Her lips parted in pleasant surprise, and she licked them nervously.

Jon's gaze undoubtably followed her movements, and she saw his eyes darken almost imperceptibly.

Sansa's breath hitched, and her heart stuttered like a candle flame in her breast. She leaned close, face cradled in his hand.

"Jon,” she whispered, her voice shaking as she looked into his eyes, his Stark eyes. She wanted to know what he was thinking. She wanted to know why it felt so right to be near him. She wanted to know why she couldn't pull away.

The Northern noise that escaped him was low and almost anguished in its emotion. "Gods," he groaned, and Sansa could feel his warm breath ghost across her lips, as if Jon was breathing life back into her body.

"Jon," she repeated, whispering, aching. She was close enough to count his eyelashes. She was close enough to brush her nose against his, their lips almost touching as she murmured his name.

And suddenly his mouth was on hers, and his hands were everywhere at once, holding her close, stroking her hair, pulling her tight as she kissed him, kissed him like a woman drunk, or mad. Her heart beat like a war drum in her chest, and she should have felt trapped, she should have been longing for air, but all Sansa felt was the overpowering urge to be nearer to him, to press her body against his until she could drown in him, safe in the heavy comfort of his arms. His mouth was soft and his tongue was hot, the press of his hands inviting in a way she had never imagined. She felt as though all the warmth of Summer was blooming in her belly, at last melting the creeping chill that had laid there since her Father's death.

Her mind stuttered - Father! - and Jon broke the kiss, stumbling back away from her. Cold air flooded the space where his body had been molded against hers, and she could have wept.

Jon's eyes were darting around, his chest heaving as he drew short, rapid breaths. His face was flushed and his hands shook as he backed away from her. "Sansa, I- forgive me," he pleaded, and her heart plummeted as he turned and fled her chambers.

She was left alone with a trembling body and a racing mind, alone as her fire spluttered and dimmed while dawn grew ever nearer.

What had she done?


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU for season seven, now...

Jon's knees ached with cold as he knelt in the deep snow in the godswood, the branches of the weirwood tree ghostly pale in the early morning light. 

He'd never prayed, at the Wall. He had lain in his bunk and whispered through clenched teeth to the gods; cursing his Father's fate, or pleading for Robb's safety on the battlefield, weeping bitterly after Ygritte's death. But this - solitude in the forest with the red leaves of the godswood trees lit up like flames around him - this was something from his past. It felt strange to reclaim it now. 

Sansa was approaching behind him. He was too much a coward to turn to face her. 

He heard when her walk came to halt just behind him, and Jon swallowed over the lump in his throat - what was he to say? He'd never had a way with words. He'd always been her brooding bastard brother, mumbling apologies or excuses around her. 

Her bastard brother, and he'd kissed her, betrayed her careful trust. 

A gust of wind sent a flurry of snow falling from a branch above his head. The same wind almost snatched her words away as she whispered a greeting. 

"It's early, Jon," she murmured. He could picture her mouth forming the words, yet he stayed gazing resolutely at the heart tree. "How long have you been out here?" 

He almost turned, but he caught himself, and merely adjusted his head to glance slightly over his shoulder. "Ghost woke me before dawn,” he explained, “and I...I needed some air." 

She huffed, and knelt beside him, leaving barely any space between them. Her embroidery thread could've passed through the sliver of air between their shoulders. "Still, there's no need to freeze, Jon." 

He smiled in spite of himself. "Well, I'm King in the North - if I can't handle the coming winter, who can?" he teased, wanting to bring a smile to her tense face. 

But instead she shifted to lean against the great tree, staring up into its bright leaves. 

She spoke without looking at him. "I used to say our house words over and over to myself - when Joffrey would beat me, when Cersei would laugh, when they married me to Tyrion Lannister and I thought they would kill me in my sleep - 'Winter is coming'," she nodded, turning her gaze now to the highest branches. "I would tell myself to keep going, for Winter is Coming, and with it, the Starks. Robbs' army, Mother, Uncle Benjen, anyone. Winter is Coming," she quoted solemnly. The Stark words hovered in the air like frost. 

Then her face crumpled inwards as she looked back down at him. "And yet a Stark never came for me."

His heart heaved in his chest as he imagined the little girl he had once known, hoping and waiting through her imprisonment for her family to save her, when no one had ever tried. 

Then he realized: "You came for me," he rasped, voice hoarse from the harsh winter air. "You did that, Sansa. You should be proud." 

Seeing her in the courtyard of Castle Black with her battered clothes and searching expression, her skin as pale and hair as scarlet as a weirwood tree, had left him reeling. He woke from the black emptiness of death to find her in his life once more, and with her came a purpose and hope he thought he'd lost when his brothers betrayed him. She looked like Winter, yet her smile held all the promise of spring. She looked like Catelyn Stark, but reminded him so very much of their father – she looked like his past, and he wanted her in his future. 

He met her gaze. “You saved me,” he confessed. “You have no idea.”

Her sad face blossomed with something like hope, and he couldn’t help but reach for her. Though his fingers clumsy with cold, his mouth sought hers easily, and she was warm and soft and full of everything winter seemed desperate to take from him. 

She sighed and grasped his fur at the collar, pulling him closer. She was sweet, so sweet. 

"Sansa," he gasped, pulling away. Her eyes were feverish-bright, and no doubt the same could be said for his. She was poised as still as the deer which spots the hunter. He cursed himself for his recklessness, his utter selfishness in her presence. 

What had he done?

**Author's Note:**

> #kingandqueeninthenorth2k17


End file.
